4am Pondering


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Seriously, why do such odd things enter my mind at random times throughout the night when I wake? Around 4am this morning, some specific absurdities of the English language filled my mind.

If I am thirsty, you could say that I have a thirst. If I am hungry, I do not have a hungr, or even a hung. Perhaps I have an appetite, but that’s not to say that I am appetitey.

Also, why do we say Merry Christmas but not Merry Chanukah, Merry New Year, Merry Easter, Merry Halloween, Merry Thanksgiving or Merry Birthday? Why hasn’t a match made in fairytale heaven ever lived merrily ever after?

Perhaps my sleep patterns would benefit if I lived in a non-English speaking country. Since this doesn’t seem to be an option for me, I’ll continue to ponder such crucial topics throughout the night and report back to you with an occasional briefing.

I leave you with wishes for a Merry Winter Solstice!



Definition of Laziness


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I’m on my own for dinner tonight and I had my heart set on a baked sweet potato. You know, an actual baked one…not a microwaved one.

As the oven began to preheat, I pulled out the sweet potato, cleaned it, then opened the drawer that houses the tinfoil. Only, the tinfoil wasn’t at home. The cling wrap and parchment didn’t seem to know where to find her. Then I remembered…I used the last of it last night when I broiled salmon for MOTH. Heavy sigh. If he would just eat a vegan diet, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.

I considered my options.

There is a grocery store right across the street from my apartment building, but rather than going out to buy more tinfoil, I texted my upstairs neighbor (the only one I know) and asked if she had any I could use. After a few minutes of waiting patiently, the chime of the phone announces her response.  Unfortunately, she is in Hoboken for a business dinner tonight.

Still, I do not want to go out of the apartment, down the hall, down the elevator, through the lobby, across the street and to the market for tinfoil, then backtrack to the apartment.

The microwave wins this battle, do to extreme laziness.

Home For The Holidays


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It has been said that home is where you hang your hat. It’s also been said that home is where you hang your heart. I’ve always been a firm believer in the latter, but since moving to New York City in the summer of 2013, my understanding of it has shifted.

My heart hangs not in just one place…it’s mobile, moving about like a groupie who attends every concert of a rock group’s tour. The rock stars, in this case, are my family and my dearest of friends. When I feel most at home is when I am with them, whether it’s here, Illinois, California, or even a place we’ve never been before, as long as we’re there together. When those I love are all present…no doubt, a rare happening…well, that’s when my heart revels in all its glory and I feel most at home. But I refuse to be greedy. One at a time will do. Time spent with a son or two, a mom, a friend, a sister-in-law, a brother…the list goes on…all satisfying.

Perhaps it surprises you that I don’t mention MOTH (a.k.a. husband). Sadly, it’s true that we take for granted those who are ever-present in our lives. That said, no gathering would be complete without him. I know that if he and I were often apart, “husband” would appear on the above list.


This Christmas, I will be at home…on the West Coast in a rented vacation home that I’m trusting will be as fabulous as the pictures on airbnb.com. I don’t know if there will be a lighted tree. It won’t be a White Christmas. There will be no chestnuts roasting on an open fire. I doubt there will be stockings hung by the chimney with care. But these things I know…there will be MOTH, there will be B, there will be K. There will be laughter. There will be hugs. There will be love. My heart will hang in comfort and joy…the greatest gift of all.




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Listening to someone tell a story can be electrifying or excruciatingly painful. The difference isn’t determined so much by the story being told, but rather by the storyteller. Getting tangled up in words being spun by a master can be as thrilling as Disney’s Splash Mountain and Space Mountain, rolled into one.

I wish I could remind myself of this each time I speak. Unfortunately, my mouth lives a spontaneous yet mundane existence, much to my brain’s chagrin. When walking in from a drenching rain I usually say, “I’m soaked.” What I’d prefer is something along the lines of, “If I’d had a preacher at my side, he could have washed away my sins.” My love of writing surely has something to do with being able to reel in my mouth and let my brain do the talking.

I came across this little plaque a couple of months ago. The message reminds me that it’s all in the storytelling. Not sure why I didn’t buy it, but at least I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo. “I’m not kidding! The airplane was coming right for my mouth!” The child who tells this story…now, there’s a kid I wanna’ meet.

IMG_3467Spinning words creatively as they fall out of ones mouth…     a gift or a talent that can be learned? What do you think? Is there hope for me?

Nice Backhand


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A few days ago, while visiting #1 son, B, I received perhaps the best backhanded compliment of my life…or was it the worst?

The Setting: The sidewalk of Colorado Avenue in sunny Santa Monica.

The Backhander: A vertically challenged, hatted man who appeared to be in his early 40’s.

The Timing: Just as we crossed paths, my steps leading westward, his eastward.

The Dialogue: Him – “You look wonderful for your age.” Me – “Thank you.”

The Aftermath: Thoughts raced through my head. Should I have thanked him? If I look so wonderful, why did he feel the need to qualify it with, for my age? Just how old does he think I am, anyway? For all I know, he thinks I’m 70 but don’t look a day over 64. But then again, maybe he thinks I’m 50 and don’t look a day over 44. (A girl can dream, can’t she?)

So, after stewing if over for a block or two, this silver-lining girl decided to take the compliment as such and run with it. After all, in the actual moment of delivery, my spirit was lifted and my stature grew by at least a quarter-inch. Based on the pleasant manner in which he conveyed the message, I believe that was his intent.

Regardless, backhand…forehand…as long as it’s on the line, it’s good. Well played, sir, well played.

As with tennis, a compliment that’s on the line is still good.


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